What Lies Beyond The Masque
by porridgewhore
Summary: The Dancing Doctor gets a run for her money when she's dragged onto the vinyl by a familiar brunette. (Slow burn with eventual romance. Set sometime between/within seasons 5 & 6.)
1. Blue Velvet, Softer Than Satin

Beverly Crusher stood in her quarters in only her underwear, arms folded, eyeballing the multitude of dresses strewn across her bed. She let out a troubled sigh. The last time she went through her closet... never mind, she couldn't even remember the last time she had the time off to do something that tedious. She was aware that she had a habit of overworking herself. If she wasn't in sick bay, she was either on an away mission or fulfilling her duties as a naturally socially inclined human being; having breakfast with Jean-Luc, attending a Mok'bara class led by Worf, teaching Data to appreciate the intricacies of dance, playing poker with Riker and the others – just to name a few. Most days, by the time the doctor reached her quarters she'd promptly flop on the bed and enter a deep sleep, only to be woken up by her alarm signifying that another hours-long shift was in store for the day ahead. Somehow, although she was surrounded by colleagues and close comrades, ever since Wesley had left for Starfleet Academy, she couldn't help but feel lonely. An abrupt end to sixteen years of a very close mother-son bond left Beverly with a void that she worried would not ever be filled again. She felt this with nearly the same severity that she did when Jack died...

_Oh, for goodness' sake,_ she thought, blinking back the tears that had begun to gather at the corners of her eyes, _Wesley is not dead! Just focus._

_Dresses._ One light blue, one dark. Three black. One salmon pink, one shimmery gold, one a deep wine-colored red, one ivory, one olive green, and one purple monstrosity that Jean-Luc picked out for her a little more than a year ago on Beltane III. That man had such an eye for beautiful things - how in the world did he think _that_ had any business on her body? Nevertheless, it was a kind gesture and of course she appreciated it greatly. She knew plenty well that he wouldn't have done that for any other woman on the ship. Beverly chuckled, thinking she'd probably wear it sometime just to please him. Regardless, that dress was definitely not the one she'd be wearing to the evening's festivities.

The ginger turned her attention to the mask lying on her dining table. Her date for the evening, Data, had admittedly done a marvelous job with its construction. Riker had assigned him to the task of creating personalized masks for all staff invited to the event: higher ranking officers and their optional plus-ones.

_Think of it as a way to flex your creative muscles, Data._

_I do not know of any muscles for that, Commander. Unless you are referring to the frontal cortex in humans, which does not appl-_

_It's a figure of speech, Data. Just have fun with it!_

She picked it up, admiring its design; a hands-free black cat eye shape just long enough to cover the bridge of the nose, embellished with intricate golden swirls throughout and black faux feathers at the upper corners. It shimmered an almost greenish hue when in the light.

"That's it!" Beverly smiled at the simple moment of enlightenment as she bent to sift through the dresses until she caught sight of one that she had always admired, but nothing more. She told herself that she never found the right occasion to wear it - that it was too pretty, too elegant. The rock at the pit of her stomach suggested otherwise. She slipped into a lacier pair of underwear, something less ordinary than the simple briefs that she had worn under her uniform just so it would feel special… personal. As she slid the dress on, fastening the zipper that reached all but halfway up her back, she turned to look at herself in the mirror.

The dress was sleeveless, a forest green sheath so dark that it was almost black. The fabric was softer than any earthly silk or satin - form-fitting but not so tight that there wasn't room to breathe; it gathered slightly right above the hips before giving way to the flowing floor-length skirt. The front was cut low and the back was cut even lower, and there was a slit that ran halfway up her right thigh, revealing much of her pale skin. She sighed, knowing that she'd have to go braless for the dress to work. It's not that she didn't enjoy going without a brassiere, it was more that she disliked the sensation of being unsupported, especially around a crew that mainly consisted of either men, or women who were a good five or ten years younger than her at least. As a doctor, she was trained to look at things from an analytical perspective; she knew that the confidence that was meant to be built during her formative years had been spoiled by unkind peers, therefore she turned to dance and intense study as coping mechanisms. Even with a fit body and a healthy mind as a result, it was simply her human nature that made her more inclined to be stern on her appearance. Once upon a time, Jack had been the one that made her feel beautiful. Nearly eleven years later and aging at a pace that felt twice as fast, she found herself uncomfortable in her own skin no matter how many times she received the occasional compliment from her female staff or caught male crew members – most notably Jean-Luc – staring.

Without warning, the computerized bell to her door sounded.

"Come," she said instinctively, momentarily dismissing the mess on her bed and floor.

The door slid open, revealing none other than her smartly dressed android friend.

Beverly had agreed to go to the ball with Data, despite the preexisting chemistry between Jean-Luc and herself. As feelings between them had subsided, they silently, mutually agreed that it was better not to test things and risk stirring up any suppressed emotions. She wouldn't necessarily have minded, but she knew how uncomfortable the captain felt embarking on a relationship with her, even all these years after Jack's death. She also wouldn't call one night out a 'relationship', but Jean-Luc probably suspected that one dance might lead to another, and by the end of the night something more. He may or may not have been correct in that assumption. Either way, Data had also mustered up the courage – if there was such a thing in androids – to ask her first. It was, 'traditional for a man to ask a woman in a situation such as this one,' he had said. She suspected he also wanted to put his dance lessons with her to the test.

Data stepped in, but in a moment was taken aback.

"Doctor, I apologize if I am incorrect, but I thought you had said that you would be ready to leave at fifteen minutes to the hour," he glanced toward the chaos on the bed, "It seems you are still in the midst of picking out an appropriate garment."

Beverly raised her brows, looking at the clock near her bed. She sighed, "Yes, Data, you'd be correct on both accounts. I suppose I overestimated how much time I had between my shift and my other commitments," she took a step back from the mirror, turning around to reveal the front of the dress to him.

"What do you think, Data? Is it too much?" She smoothed her hands down the front of the dress and then through her hair before looking back up at him.

"No, Doctor-"

"You can call me Beverly tonight, Data. We're off duty."

"Ah. No, Beverly, I would not say it is 'too much' considering the event that we are attending. A masquerade ball often requires more extravagant attire. Might I add that you look wonderful," he commented, with a smile that was _almost_ human.

"Thank you, Data," Beverly smiled back at him before heading toward the bathroom to do her hair. "You don't look too bad, yourself. I almost didn't recognize you under that mask."

"If I am not mistaken, that is the point of a masquerade."

Beverly chuckled, sticking a pin in her hair. "Yes, Data, I suppose you're right."

A few moments of silence passed before Data feigned clearing his throat and piped up again, "Beverly, might I suggest you move swiftly. The ball begins at twenty-hundred hours and it is currently nineteen hours and fifty-two minutes."

"Data, I'm moving as fast as I can manage! I don't want to look like a train wreck when we arrive. I'll be done soon," she reassured him, smiling over her shoulder, "If worse comes to worst, we'll be fashionably late."

"I see. Would you like me to put away the garments on the floor?"

"No, Data," she replied, "I'll do that when I get back. Why don't you sit down for a few minutes?"

Sure enough, by the time they had left the doctor's quarters it was already twenty hours, six minutes. Regardless of that and her original reluctance to wear the dreaded green dress, she did feel somewhat pleased with her abilities to beautify herself in such a short amount of time. She'd converted her simplistic daily makeup to something more relevant and thrown on a dark red lip, a pair of sensible black heels that wouldn't trip her up while dancing, and to top it all off went with a gold necklace and bracelet set accompanied by gold studs for earrings. She'd even remembered the matching green elbow-length gloves that came with the dress when she bought it years ago.

"Are you ready, Beverly?"

"As ready as I'll ever be, Data," and with that the pair stepped through the door to the holodeck. Beverly could barely believe her eyes. That said, every time she stepped into the holodeck she could barely believe her eyes. The fact that a computer could generate such elaborate believable scenery was astonishing in every sense of the word. This time, it was set to project a large, dimly lit ballroom with black tile flooring and high ceilings, completed with ginormous glass chandeliers. At the front of the venue was a stage set with four holographic instrumentalists dressed in twentieth century clothing: two violinists, one violist, one cellist. They were playing a romantic-era Vivaldi piece that she recognized but couldn't name.

Soon after their entry, they were greeted by Geordie and his date – a girl from engineering that he'd been talking about for a while. Data was thoughtful enough to modify Geordie's mask so that it would fit around his visor without any trouble. If it weren't for that and the familiar inflections of his voice, she might not have even figured it to be Geordie in the first place - the magic of dim lighting and good costuming on Data's part.

"Data? Is that you under there?"

"It is. Good evening, Geordie."

"You really did a nice job with the masks. I could barely recognize you!"

"So I have been told," Data mused before introducing his partner, "Beverly, as I am sure you can tell, this is Geordie and his date for the evening, Jessica."

Beverly opened her arms for a hug and Geordie complied, Jessica following suit.

"Wow, Doctor. You clean up nice."

Beverly blushed under her mask. "Oh hush, Geordie," she waved a hand in resistance, "you look amazing. And you too, Jessica. I'll see you on the dance floor."

The two circulated around the room, greeting people as they went, complimenting Worf on developing such a reasonable guest list, Jean-Luc on the magnificent setting (to which he replied with a gruff, "Thank you, Beverly… You look lovely.") and of course William Riker for coming up with such a grand solution to all of the stress that had been weighing the crew down.

"Hello, Will. Where's Deanna?" Beverly asked, excited to see her friend all dressed up for the evening. She knew Deanna would be proud of her ensemble, especially considering all of the positive comments she was receiving.

"Oh, she's somewhere in here. My guess is she's floating around, reveling in other people's joy. This is a happy night for her. I knew it would be," he smiled with the charm of every man in the room combined. Though he and the counselor had been separated for some time, it still satisfied Will to see Deanna cheerful. Beverly knew very well how the feelings of an entire crew could get to her friend after a while; they often spoke about it while visiting with each other.

"Would you like something to drink, Beverly?" Data asked after a moment.

"Oh yes, Data. Champagne would be wonderful."

He swiftly returned with a glass of pseudo-champagne from the makeshift bar that Guinan was manning at the back corner of the hall. Though it was composed of a chemical variant, synthehol still had some warming effects, which Beverly was more than happy to experience. Data asked to be excused so that he could speak with Geordie for a while before the dance started, to which the doctor nodded. Riker was quick to dismiss himself, too, eager to talk to some of the crewmembers he didn't usually get a chance to.

Beverly leaned against a column off to the side, more comfortable now that she had a glass of champagne in hand. She scanned the room for familiar faces – well, bodies. Will, Geordie, Worf, Jean-Luc, two people who she thought for sure were Miles O'Brien and his partner Keiko, her best nurse Alyssa…

_Deanna Troi_. Beverly nearly dropped her glass. She was angelic. Of course, she expected nothing less from her gorgeous best friend. Somehow, she always exuded effortless grace. Perhaps it was her natural womanly demeanor, a physical trait that blended so fluently with her radiant compassion. Not to mention the easygoing confidence that made up for her short stature. She wore a royal blue floor-length dress, velvet from what Beverly could see. Her mask was the exact same shade, spruced up with white decals, which she had accentuated with a string of white pearls and a matching pair of heels. It seemed like Deanna had an outfit for every occasion. The entire ensemble was completely pulled together by the one characteristic that had tipped the ginger off in the first place: that incredible dark hair. It cascaded down her back, bouncing as she laughed with crewmates and friends. Beverly had always wanted hair like that – in fact, she had tried to dye hers once, unfortunately with disastrous results. She often found herself in awe of Deanna, though she couldn't quite call the feeling envy, or even a general attraction. It was more like…

"Desire?" A familiar voice gave the doctor such a start that she nearly dropped her glass – again.

"Excuse me?" Beverly turned quickly, resulting in a few drops of champagne escaping her glass and landing on her dress, which she hurriedly patted away. She looked up to see none other than Guinan leaning on the same column to her right. Beverly let out a sigh of relief, "Oh, hi there, Guinan. I'm sorry, you startled me. What were you saying?"

"Do you _desire_ a different drink, Doctor? You haven't taken a sip of your champagne since Data brought it to you," the wise woman pointed out with a calming smile.

"No, this will do just fine, thank you."

"Are you sure?" She lowered her voice and nudged the doctor, "I'm no empath, but I'm sort of feeling you're enjoying watching the crowd more than your champagne. What's got you all worked up, Doc?"

"Oh, nothing. I'm just lost in thought, is all. Aren't you supposed to be manning the bar?"

"I'm just taking a break. Don't worry - your date's got it covered," she turned to the back of the room and Beverly looked past her to see the android inspecting a corkscrew. "You know, your thoughts can be a dangerous place to get lost in."

"I know, I know. I'm just feeling a bit uneasy all of a sudden. Is there a place I can sit down?"

"Sure, your good friend Jean-Luc is sitting just beyond that column across from us. Why don't you go say hello?"

"I'd prefer not to if that's alright, Guinan. I've already said hello."

"And nothing more?" the bartender looked at her inquisitively, raising the spot above her right eye where a brow would be if she were human. Or maybe she just shaves them off? Beverly could never really tell with Guinan. Nobody could. "I thought you two were close?"

"We are!" She paused briefly before continuing with, "well, we are, and we aren't. It's been tough recently. I think we're both getting a little lonely, to be honest. All I know is that I don't want to be in a relationship with him and he doesn't want to be in one with me. It would… complicate things. On top of that, I'm not sure I even want a man in my life right now," Beverly took a sip from her champagne glass in an effort to slow her thoughts.

"What about a woman?"


	2. It Takes Two To Tango

"What about a woman?"

The champagne that was in Beverly's mouth came out through her nose.

"Oh, I'm sorry! Here," Guinan pulled a napkin out of what seemed to be thin air, but what was more likely just a well-hidden pocket, and offered it to Beverly.

Once the doctor was sufficiently cleaned up and had taken a moment to catch her breath, she feigned ignorance, actively ignoring the heat that had risen into her cheeks, "Why in the world would you say that?"

Guinan gave her a quizzical look at first, "Hm, I don't know… Maybe because you were gazing at your friend there for three straight minutes until I came over here," she shrugged, glancing over at Counselor Troi with a smirk. She knew exactly what she was doing.

"Three minutes?" the doctor squeaked before taking a deep, grounding breath and standing upright once more, awkwardly adjusting her dress as if it would give her more confidence. It always seemed to work for the captain. "I do not _gaze_ at Deanna."

"Hey," Guinan held up her hands in metaphorical surrender, "All I'm saying is you might want to try socializing more and staring less. Maybe you should go over there and tell her how you feel. She _is_ a counselor after all."

"How I _feel_?" Her brow furrowed inquisitively before the implications of Guinan's words hit her and she let out a dismissive chuckle, shaking her head. "Oh, no. No, no, no. I don't have feelings for Deanna. She's my best friend. I could never…"

"You could never _what_?"

Beverly took a moment to gather her thoughts, taking a good look at her shoes rather than the woman in front of her. She couldn't envision herself with Deanna, anyways. Such a proposition went against moral principle – it was a matter of violating a friendship that Beverly had come to covet. Visions of Odan flooded her memory; she had loved him more than any man since Jack – at least, she thought she did. It may have been nothing more than a schoolgirl's infatuation, but she found that when she was with Odan, everything had come so naturally; until it didn't anymore. When he was forced to switch from the Odan she knew to the Odan that was William Riker, she didn't know if she could continue a relationship with him. Of course, then came Kareel, the female host. At the time she had told herself that it was the ever-changing host situation, that it was simply the process that had caused her discomfort. Beverly could not refrain from asking herself the obvious, however: Was it the abrupt, grueling process that drove her away? Or was it something as shallow as the change of scenery? She hoped it was the former.

"Well, I suppose I-" In a blink, Beverly's eyes finally found their way up from her heels and she came face-to-face with none other than her date, Data.

"You suppose you… What, Beverly?"

The doctor quickly peered beyond her android friend to see Guinan at her post (the bar) polishing a glass and shooting Beverly a wink. She turned her attention back to Data, "Oh, I was just, um-"

Data lifted a finger, effectively silencing her, and cocked his head slightly, "Ah. I am sorry to interrupt this conversation, Beverly, but if I am not mistaken, that was the cue for the first dance." He was correct, of course. The quartet had stopped the music briefly, giving everyone a chance to get situated while the program phased in a piano and subsequent player. The android bowed to her slightly, extending a hand, "May I have this dance, Doctor?"

Beverly placed her glass on a nearby table, took Data's hand, and allowed herself to be guided to the dance floor.

It took approximately one measure for her to identify exactly which steps corresponded with the rhythm of the song. "Waltz," she smiled at Data as he assumed the position that she had taught him and took her hand in his. As she expected, their weekly lessons had paid off and in just a few short minutes she was able to release any lingering negativity, giving herself away to the music. Dance had always been her source of relief; she found solace in song and step.

The song came to a swift end, leaving Beverly feeling out of breath but otherwise weightless. For the doctor, dancing was an addiction with no undesirable side effects. It was a craft that had won her several awards throughout college, dubbing her 'The Dancing Doctor.' She had fallen in love with jazz and tap back then, but lately she had been sneaking in trips to the least popular of the sixteen holodecks to brush up on more lyrical styles. As much as she feared the resurfacing of that title, one night of fun couldn't hurt. Participation would be more appropriate than polarization, anyway.

"Fantastic job, Data, really!" Beverly beamed. Admittedly, she was extremely proud of her pupil. He was already moving with more purpose and fluidity than he did when they began weekly ballroom lessons no more than two months ago. Not to mention his mastery of tap after only one lesson, which could only logically be attributed to his positronic memory.

"Thank you, Beverly. If you do not mind, I would like to sit down and continue my earlier discussion with Geordie." Data had barely finished the sentence before a large hand landed firmly on his shoulder.

"That's quite alright, Data," William Riker grinned almost wickedly at Beverly, "I'll take it from here."

The android left the dance floor and headed over to a table in the back to converse with Geordie (who wasn't much of a dancer) and his date Jessica (who may have looked the tiniest bit disappointed in light of that.)

"You sure you can take the heat, Doc?"

Beverly flashed the commander her slyest smile, "Bring it on."

"Mambo!" Riker barked, and the musicians were quick to comply.

Beverly went on like this for the remainder of the evening, switching partners as often as they approached her, which was practically every song. She couldn't help but feel like the most popular woman in the room as she spun effortlessly on the vinyl, accompanied by her muscle memory of the samba, the salsa, the Cha Cha, and one unexpectedly energetic rumba with Jean-Luc, who finally seemed to be enjoying himself. Hastily taking the chance to excuse herself before the next – slow – song started up, she strode towards an empty seat; that was, until she heard her name being called by a sweet voice a few tables down.

"Beverly! Over here!" The doctor would recognize that accent anywhere. She turned to see a gleaming Deanna Troi motioning for her to take a seat beside her_. _She glanced at the bar, and in doing so locked eyes with a very smug Guinan._ Brace yourself, Bev._

Beverly smiled, plodded over to her friend, and settled down into the seat beside her, peeling off her gloves. She kicked off her heels and leaned back into the cushion, attempting to recuperate a little before she would, without question, once again fall victim to the dance floor. "How did you recognize me?"

"Red hair," Deanna shrugged. It seemed there was no escape - even an updo couldn't hide Beverly's natural hue. "Someone's been enjoying themselves," she teased, resting her chin on her hand, elbow on the table.

"It's not as easy as it seems to switch styles at warp speed," Beverly leaned forward, mimicking the counselor's pose, "One moment I was doing the mambo with Will, the next I had finished at least seven songs' worth of dance with six men I barely knew."

"Not to mention Jean-Luc," Deanna chimed in, cheeky, "You made him very happy, you know."

"Oh, hush," Beverly rolled her eyes dramatically, "_Empaths_."

"What? I'm just doing my job!" The counselor fired back, playfully defensive. She continued, "But I don't blame them."

"Blame who?"

"Those men. You say you barely know them, yet they practically flocked to you! I mean, well, you look…"

Beverly couldn't help but notice Deanna's dark eyes flicker up and down her body behind her mask, perhaps lingering a little too long on the places where her skin was clearly visible.

_No_, she thought, _that's just your imagination talking, Beverly_.

"…Astonishing, to say the very least," the brunette finally finished her sentence after what seemed to Beverly like years of internal deliberation. _Exaggerating once again_, she reasoned. Yet she couldn't escape the blush that creeped up her chest and onto her cheeks. _Thank God for dim lighting_.

"Thank you, Deanna," the redhead grinned to herself before lowering her voice, "But between you and me, I don't think any woman at this event holds a candle to Lieutenant Worf." This remark made Deanna giggle uncontrollably and even let out a snort, at which Beverly broke character and joined in her laughter.

"But seriously, Deanna," Beverly interjected after taking a moment to catch her breath, "Have you looked in the mirror recently? You're easily the most gorgeous woman in the room." _You always are._ She swallowed, thinking, _There go those intrusive thoughts – again_.

"Fine," Deanna stood up from her seat suddenly, wiping away any stray tears left over from her fit of giggles. "We could sit here all night arguing over who's the most attractive girl in the room. But you know what they say," the empath held out a delicate hand for Beverly to take, a mischievous twinkle in her eye, "It takes two to tango."

The music had already started, and Beverly barely had time to slip her shoes back on before she was dragged onto the dance floor by the beaming brunette - she didn't even bother trying with the gloves. Just as Deanna had predicted, the tune emanating from the holographic piano was a classic tango. Not terribly quick, but it was enough to make her wonder if Deanna would be able to keep up. From what Deanna had told her she wasn't much of a dancer. That, and Beverly was certain that Betazed was home to completely different styles of dance. _Does she even know what a tango is?_

"Deanna," the ginger started as the two briskly assumed position. She tried her best to comment without judgement, "the tango is notorious for-"

"_Don't_ underestimate me," the empath must have sensed her doubt, as her smile quickly transformed into a straight face and what the doctor knew was a raised brow behind the mask, "Just put your hand on my waist and lead. I'll follow."

The flustered doctor managed to place one hand in her partner's and the other on her waist, drawing her close enough to make her heart beat about two times as fast, guiding the shorter woman across the floor, falling into a natural step with the music, trying as best she could to be totally fluid in her movements even if her nerves demanded she do otherwise. What she _would_ have said if Counselor Troi hadn't interrupted is that the tango is notorious for its oftentimes unpredictable changes in pace and improvised poses. What Beverly would have refrained from telling Deanna is that the tango is regarded as one of the most - for lack of a better word - _sensual_ ballroom dances, though she couldn't ignore the voice in her head suggesting that the empath already knew that.

"Beverly," Deanna uttered, her voice at a volume that only Beverly could hear, "Don't be afraid, pick up the pace. I can handle it." The counselor smirked and suddenly the switch flipped in Beverly's head. The gears that were previously grinding began working smoothly again – in short, she regained her composure.

"I hope so," Beverly toyed, returning the smirk and giving Deanna a quick twirl before drawing her near once more.

Sure enough, the counselor stayed true to her word. Beverly adjusted her stride so that Deanna could keep up and still manage to maintain a swift pace. She had long enough legs to generally match a male counterpart's, however, this time she had assumed that role and her partner was at _least_ ten centimeters shorter than she was – something Beverly found convenient in the sense that it was easier for her to lead, and on a personal level somewhat endearing. As the music increased in intensity so did their movements; one moment Deanna was performing a simple twirl, the next Beverly was picking her up by the waist and spinning her (albeit not very high) in the air. Nevertheless, the act seemed to amaze them both. She knew it was the adrenaline, but she was grateful for the much-needed boost of confidence it provided regardless. In a few steps Beverly briskly turned Deanna around so that she was facing the opposite direction – a textbook tango move – but it left the two of them pressed together, Beverly's front to Deanna's back. The brunette outstretched her arms, and the ginger knew what to do of course, but was difficult to keep her cool when she could feel every inch of her skin burning through the softer-than-silk fabric of her dress. She hoped that Deanna couldn't feel her heart beating out of her chest.

_Start at the waist._ Beverly placed both hands on Deanna's waist, closing her eyes and allowing her nerves alone to guide her up the velvet of her partner's dress at a pace that matched the tempo of the song but felt agonizingly slow. Past the rib cage, past the gentle curve of Deanna's breasts, following the soft skin of each outstretched arm until she reached the manicured tips of her fingers and clasped their hands together - she was glad she ditched the gloves. It was at this point that the doctor realized she had stopped breathing and forced herself to take a singular, shaky breath before opening her eyes. She then steered their united hands back down to Deanna's waist and quickly spun her before dipping her low. Their eyes met, past the masks, blue eyes searching black, and in that moment, Beverly was sure that Deanna knew _exactly_ how she was feeling. The dream had reached peak surrealism; it was all too bizarre and simultaneously too real for her to handle. It made her feel queasy. Time was stretching like Cytraxian taffy and she felt her ears begin to ring and when the crescendo of the piano cued her in to resume movement, she couldn't have been more thankful.

They fell back into step, but Deanna refused to break eye contact with Beverly. It made her nervous. Could Deanna _really_ tell what she was thinking? Maybe, if she tried hard enough, Beverly could disguise it as a feeling of loving friendship rather than what it actually was: _desire_. She knew deep down that she had to admit it, maybe even come to terms with it, but Beverly only felt herself become frustrated, _There's that damned word again_. Guinan was right – Guinan was _always_ right – but the thought that it had been obvious to someone that wasn't even an empath and yet it hadn't been to Beverly until just a few moments ago was infuriating. _Just focus_.

The piano plunked out the last few chords and Beverly instinctively lowered Deanna into a final dip, closing her eyes. Maybe if she closed her eyes, when she opened them, she'd be in her quarters. Maybe, if she shut them tight, she'd wake up from this dream and head down to sick bay, check herself out, then happily chalk it up to nerves.

_Beverly_.

_Beverly?_

"Beverly!"

The doctor opened her eyes, and alas, she was still in the ballroom, breathing heavy, eye-to-eye with the ship's counselor who was breathtaking, and not just because Beverly was literally out of breath. "What! What?" She exclaimed, flustered.

Deanna just smiled and tipped her head slightly in the direction of, not the musicians to their left, but what should have been an open space to their right. Beverly finally mustered up the courage to divert her attention away from her friend and direct it there, and immediately pulled herself and Deanna up into a standing position. The guests that had been standing around or dancing had formed a half-circle of sorts around the dance floor, and those that were sitting had seemed to stop all conversation in favor of what must have been a very entertaining show. Only a few seconds passed before someone from one of the back tables – was it the captain? - stood up and initiated a what could only be described as a roar of applause among the crew. All Beverly could think to do was smile and wave a dismissive "oh-that-was-nothing" hand. She was prepared to excuse herself from the floor and get back to her quarters as fast as humanly possible without causing a scene, but Deanna grabbed her hand before she could carry out her escape plan and took a bow. Beverly followed suit, but the attention was making her woozy. Normally she took pride in her on-stage presence; in fact, it oftentimes was the place she felt most comfortable, but this time she wanted nothing more than to be out of the spotlight and alone. Thankfully, Deanna finally turned to step off the vinyl flooring, but it seemed she had no intention of dropping Beverly's hand.

"Wh-where in the world did you learn to do that?" Beverly managed to string together a sentence. It may have come out as nothing more than a murmur, and she may have stumbled her way through it, but it was a sentence, nonetheless.

"Lessons," Deanna responded plainly, though she was obviously pleased with herself – yet another quirk that Beverly found painfully sweet.

"With whom?" _Fuck_, the doctor swore at herself, knowing that her inflection made her sound offended.

"I'm sorry Beverly, I wanted to surprise you," Deanna's smile softened, and she gave her friend's hand a light, reassuring squeeze, "It was just a holodeck program. I have to admit, I wasn't really expecting to reveal it to you like this…"

"That's alright, Deanna," Beverly returned the squeeze before dropping her hand. Though she had escaped the spotlight, she hadn't yet escaped Deanna, and she was convinced that if she continued the conversation for much longer, she would pass out. She took a couple steps backward, fully intent on leaving, "But I'm feeling a little tired. I think I'll just head back to my quarters-"

Before she could complete the sentence, a deep voice interjected, "And miss my speech?"

"Hi, Will," Deanna beamed as he bent to give her a kiss on the cheek.

"I have to admit, it's gonna be hard to upstage that show," Riker joked, giving Beverly a peck on the cheek as well.

"Yeah, sorry. I think I might be a little dehydrated."

Will started, "We could get you something from the bar, I'm sure Guinan's got water somewhere back th-"

"No, that's okay-" Beverly had accidentally backed into a chair, "Shit, sorry." _Did I really just apologize to a chair?_

"It's alright, Beverly," the doctor could tell that Deanna was trying not to sound disappointed. For a moment, she even felt a little guilty. "Feel better!"

Beverly gave a final wave as she headed towards the door, head low and unassuming. She was able to snatch her gloves but was called over to a nearby table before she got much further.

"Hey, Doc, that was _some_ performance," Geordie whistled, and all she could think in such a foggy, irrational state was, _He knows. _"You thinking of offering any couple's lessons anytime soon? Jessica and I-"

"Sorry, Geordie, can we talk about this another time? I'm not feeling well," _I'm not feeling well, I'm not feeling well. _"Oh, hold on, Data?"

"Yes?" The android looked up from the corkscrew Guinan obviously lent him.

"How long was that tango? How long was I up there?"

"Well, the duration of time from the moment the music started to the moment it ended was approximately three minutes and forty-two seconds, however from the time the music stopped to the time you stood up and ended your performance was approximately eleven seconds. So, that brings the total time to-"

"Three minutes, fifty-three seconds. Thank you, Data." She started again toward the back of the holodeck; arms folded. She couldn't believe it; that three minutes and forty-two seconds had felt like an eternity, and _eleven seconds_ at the end? That _was_ an eternity, at least in the spotlight it was. She would never even _think_ of being silent and unmoving during a performance for _eleven seconds _without it being absolutely crucial to the plot.

"Beverly!" Jean-Luc approached her from the back of the room with open arms, "Inspiring performance, as usual."

Beverly, out of respect for her good friend, permitted the hug and offered a weak smile. She could feel her anxiety beginning to weigh on her, melting her down like wax over a flame. Was she sweating? "Thank you, Jean-Luc. I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"Probably not as much as you did," he replied before stepping back from the hug, gently holding her by the shoulders at arm's length. He furrowed his brow, "Beverly, you don't look well."

"That would be because I'm not, I was actually heading off to bed," she could detect the concern on his face and in his tone. Jean-Luc had a way of seeing right through her that nobody else did – he always noticed the little things.

"Well then, you'd better get to your quarters before anyone else snags you," his soft voice was accompanied by an understanding smile. "And believe me, I would not like to be the one to keep you from getting your beauty rest. Not on a night before breakfast, that is."

"Yes, breakfast, right," obviously she had forgotten that their bi-weekly breakfast happened to be the next morning, "Thank you. Goodnight, Jean-Luc."

"Goodnight Beverly. Oh, and one more thing…"

"Yes?"

"Thanks for the rumba," he winked.

"Anytime," and with that, she hurried out of the holodeck.


	3. Just A Fantasy

"What's with _her_?" Will jabbed a thumb in Beverly's direction. His tone was sarcastic, but Deanna could sense that he really did mean well. Though he and the doctor didn't _always_ get along (usually it was a matter of one of them being too stubborn to admit that the other was right, whether that be on an away mission or during a particularly heated game of poker) Will always put the wellbeing of the crew before himself. Naturally, as a healer, so did Beverly. Deanna was beginning to think she had a type.

"I don't know," Deanna lied through her teeth. "Something's changed in her."

"I'll say," Riker let out a snarky puff of air, rolling his eyes.

Deanna couldn't help but smile at his juvenile behavior, "Your tone couldn't be more pointed."

Will shrugged, and shook his head once, a smile returning to his face, "What can I say? Speaking as a man, sometimes women…"

"_Yes_?" Deanna put her hands on her hips, leaning forward, challenging him to choose his words carefully. The counselor knew that she could be assertive when she wanted to despite her small build, and this was one of those instances where her intimidation tactics could make a man much larger than her shrink in chagrin. She'd be lying if she said that it didn't satisfy her from time to time.

"Elude me?" he finished with a wince that functioned in contrast to the intense red of his mask, realizing just how insensible he sounded.

It was Deanna's turn to roll her eyes, "Charming, Will, really." Deanna took pride in the knowledge that only she could elicit this type of response from William Riker, a man whose honor generally stood between him and resolving personal conflicts by facing them head-on. Instead, he often chose to smooth things over with his sense of humor and call it a day. Deanna knew this game well, and Will knew not to play it with her. "Now go up there and make your speech before you say anything else without thinking," Deanna smirked and crossed her arms, "I hope you've rehearsed."

As Will sauntered over to the vinyl, tapping a fork on his champagne glass to call attention to himself, Deanna turned her own attention to the back of the ballroom. She saw Beverly's slender arms wrap around the captain in what she knew was nothing more than a friendly hug. If she had wanted to pursue a relationship with him, Deanna would have been the first to know. Now, though, Deanna was having a hard time reading Beverly at all. Most of the time, interpreting Beverly's emotions came almost _too_ easily. They were as orderly as you'd expect from a person who possessed a talent for looking at things through a logical lens, and the doctor rarely had a problem relaying her concerns – no matter how harsh they were. It was simply the nature of a physician.

That said, Beverly had a method of avoiding internal turmoil unlike any other human Deanna met. She built up this wall sometimes, a sturdy brick wall with mortar filling every crevasse, a wall that Deanna could not seem to chip away at no matter how sharp the chisel. The counselor suspected it was because Beverly had never been granted the opportunity to properly grieve Jack's death with a son and a career demanding her attention. Every moment that she had been given to reflect on her late husband's untimely passing was swiftly confiscated from her, and with time she had grown so used to deflecting those negative emotions that she subconsciously added a brick to her wall any time his name even popped into her head. By now, she had the skills to erect that wall whenever she felt she needed it. It didn't take Deanna's empathic abilities to see that, it only took some perception. Deanna – being the ship's counselor – had, of course, offered to talk things through with Beverly some months ago following Wesley's acceptance to Starfleet. It seemed an appropriate time. Beverly, however, had immediately refused, insisting she could "handle it on her own," that she was "used to change," and that she, "would rather be a friend and not a patient." The counselor hadn't referred explicitly to Jack's death, but she was sure that she had alluded to it. If Beverly had agreed to counseling there would be no avoiding the topic, no matter how sensitive. Maybe she didn't realize. Maybe she thought that their discussions would be solely about Wesley… _Yeah, right_, Deanna thought. Beverly was smarter than that – cunning, even.

"Thanks again, everyone, for joining me this evening. A special thanks to Lieutenant Commander Data for constructing these masks…"

Deanna phased back into reality, just in time to catch the end of Will's impromptu speech and a glimpse of bright red hair before the door to the holodeck hissed shut.

"And a _very_ special thanks to our star performers of the night, Counselor Troi and Doctor Crusher." Will winked at Deanna, who offered a bashful smile to the clapping crew before shooting him a look that existed somewhere between annoyed and embarrassed. "Goodnight, and get some sleep, everyone. Tomorrow we'll be visiting the Gariman sector to do some negotiating with our Klingon friends. Business as usual." The crowd stifled a collective groan and instead murmured amongst themselves, a response that she knew filled Will with great pleasure.

As the crew filed out of the holodeck Deanna cleared her thoughts and opened her reception to her crewmates' feelings. Occasionally, the sound of so many emotional frequencies would set her off-kilter, but she found that after any large event only a sleepy buzz remained. Was she selfish for taking advantage of their emotions? Perhaps, but it was the only way she could think to slow her thoughts before succumbing to the sleep she already felt encroaching on her; that is, if she could keep a certain ginger off her mind while she prepared for bed.

As soon as Deanna returned to the privacy of her quarters, she ditched the pearls and removed the regal blue mask she had sported that evening, carefully setting it on her bedside table. Unlike her mother, Deanna was generally not one to place emotional value in objects. She found liberation in trusting memories as opposed to materials. In her closet, however, laid a compact box of keepsakes from her escapades while aboard the Starship Enterprise – for example, a small pot that a Rakhari child had painted for her during a full contact mission to defuse an oppressive government. Deanna had yet to decide whether the mask would prove itself worthy of claiming a spot in her personal treasure chest.

The counselor was beginning to feel the effects of standing in high-heeled shoes for a long period of time. A dull ache crawled its way up from the balls of her feet, past her calves, and through her spine. She kicked them off, level with the ground once more, took a deep breath, and prepared to peel off the velvet that clung to her curves.

And as she released that breath, intent on banishing any tension left in her system after a long night out, she felt an unwelcome hot wind on her neck. Instinctively her hand flew to the back of her neck and she whipped around, fully expecting to confront someone or some_thing_ that had followed her in. Instead, the counselor was left searching the empty space behind her in a near panic until promptly attributing the incident to exhaustion. Still, it caught her off guard and she was wary as she slid out of the dress and into her beloved silk nightgown. If given the option, Deanna would choose to spend the majority of her time aboard the Enterprise in her quarters, enveloped in pink silk with a chocolate sundae in hand. As she plodded over to her mirror to remove her makeup and the clip that kept her hair out of her face, she found herself unable to keep her mind from wandering in directions she had little control over. Again, she felt a breath on the back of her neck – hot, almost stinging, and this time she recognized it. Deanna tilted her head back, closed her eyes, leaned into the presence, and gave herself away to the fantasy.

**_Start at the waist_**. Deanna could barely hear it – a faint whisper – but she recognized that breathy timbre. It was accompanied by a touch, a gossamer stroke – one that sent a shiver all the way up her spine and into her neck. It nearly made her moan, but she caught herself. _It's just a fantasy_, she repeated, _Just a fantasy_. She had experienced this same caress not more than an hour ago, and she failed to understand just how the emotions associated with it had shifted from friendly to whatever _this_ was. That perplexity didn't stop those familiar, tingly fingers from trailing up her rib cage, agonizingly slow. They brushed against the sides of her breasts and this time she _did_ moan with an airiness akin to the ghost that had whispered to her just moments ago, soft and sweet. The touch traveled down her arms to her hands and pricked her fingertips. The tickle that had assumed position at the top of her spine traveled down as well, down to her lower back and curled itself into the front of her lower abdomen and it made her head roll back and her fingers clench into tight fists but, _oh_, how she loved it-

**_Deanna_**.

Her eyes flew open and in an instant the feeling was gone. That burning touch dissipated, and Deanna found herself gazing at only her own reflection, a red-hot blush peeking through the light layer of foundation on her cheeks. She dislodged the breath caught in her throat and let out a shaky sigh, rubbing her hands up and down her upper arms as if that pleasurable shiver had left an icy cool in its wake – and yes, she did have goosebumps. She squeezed her eyes shut and gave her head a vigorous shake in a perfunctory attempt to erase the image of her friend's hands tracing up and down her body. There was a chance that she had just committed a crime against her friendly bond with Beverly. As much as it frightened her, a foreign excitement still lingered in the pit of her stomach. Did she risk changing the very nature of their relationship? _Did I go too far?_ she wondered briefly before piecing together a (rather lame) reasoning: _No. Betazoids cave into the occasional daydream without remorse. It's in your blood to feel this strongly._ If the rest of her species could justify such an event, she could, too.

Deanna had to be honest with herself, however. Deep down, she knew exactly why she was battling such intense tactile memories. It was much like the Ullian intrusion, but not nearly as unpleasant. The counselor should have foreseen the affects that a full-contact experience with her best friend would have on the both of them. (And maybe she did, but she was going to avoid delving into that possibility. She was already in over her head as it were.) Beverly was an extremely attractive woman in Deanna's eyes and she always had been. She was headstrong without lacking emotional depth and foundational compassion – a trait that she hadn't found in any of the human men she had been with, including Will. Though at one point he had been _Imzadi_, (beloved, her first) she couldn't ignore the tempting notion that Beverly presented a new "first." Now, it seemed that she was much more than just _attractive_. Admittedly, Deanna had not been as subtle as she would have liked during her conversation with Beverly earlier that evening – she knew it then, and she knew it now, but at this point she couldn't help it. The counselor wanted so badly to blame the dress – that damned green dress, accentuating every structured curve of her body and leaving so little to the imagination with the slit revealing a toned leg, the criminally low neckline, and an open back that _demanded_ attention – but she couldn't do that and stay truthful to what happened at the masquerade. When Beverly experienced the anxiety that accompanied Deanna's lingering gaze, Deanna felt it, too. When Beverly experienced the brief bout of lust that accompanied running her hands up the velvet of Deanna's dress, Deanna felt _that_, as well. And she was sure of her assumptions as she gazed into the deepest oceans that were Beverly's eyes… until the song picked back up again. It was then that Beverly panicked and erected the wall that Deanna was beginning to loathe.

Deanna took a deep, stabilizing breath and decided to quit it before her theories got the best of her. Finally, she wet a cloth with cool water, wiping away the evening's makeup – attempting to sober up in the process – and pulled a routine comb through her hair before swiping her curls up into a halfhearted ponytail of sorts. It was the best she could do because suddenly, she was feeling drained. Deanna barely made it to her mattress before collapsing, and her final thoughts before succumbing to a dreamless Betazoid sleep consisted only of that familiar, delicate touch.


	4. Beverly, When The Wall Fell

Thirteen days.

Thirteen days and approximately six hours. That is how long it had been since Doctor Crusher and Counselor Troi had maintained a real conversation – something that consisted of more than one or two offhanded sentences during staff briefings or professional transactions. Yes, Beverly Crusher – the woman who was _supposed_ to be Deanna's closest confidante – was actively ignoring her. And, yes, Deanna absolutely was counting. Every hour that passed felt like one more needle driving itself deep into her heart. At first, she was sympathetic towards her friend; half of her consciousness experienced the same longing and hesitation that any other human would. Her Betazoid half, however, was only frustrated by the situation. Betazoids were far more insightful emotionally – so much so that they often frowned upon other species' trivialities. Deanna considered herself lucky to see things from both angles, but it seemed that her Betazoid genes were getting the best of her.

She was sitting before her mirror, just as she was that night – the night that she couldn't stop re-experiencing. The memory carried with it a beautiful torment akin to the Douwd music… If only the counselor could rely on the Enterprise's chief medical officer to provide her with the same relief she was granted back then. If only she could feel the calming caress of a healer's hand. _Why won't Beverly just be honest with me? If she would just _talk_ to me, maybe…_ Deanna sighed. Less Betazoid telepathy meant more Human tiptoeing around the truth. Even if Beverly wasn't interested, which Deanna knew wasn't the case – why else would she put up that wall every time they made eye contact? – she saw no valid reason why they couldn't at the very least reignite their friendship.

"Computer," Deanna started, maintaining the staring contest she had initiated with her reflection. She couldn't help but notice the saddened tilt of her brows. It seemed that they had been fixed that way since around three days following the masquerade – approximately the same time she started counting the hours. "What is the location of Beverly Crusher?"

"_Doctor Crusher is located in sick bay._"

Was she really going to do this? _Yes_, Deanna mentally confirmed it – something she felt she had to do lest she avoid confronting the issue any longer. She stood, running her hands down the sturdy fabric of her light purple uniform and adjusting her headband so that it was _just so_. Thirteen days was long enough. She couldn't even think about waiting another day, let alone another _two weeks_, to see Beverly. At that point they might as well cut off the friendship altogether, and Deanna would do _anything_ to avoid that. She wasn't sure how much longer Will was, well, willing to be her outlet, and she wasn't sure how much longer she could go without a more prominent female presence in her life. Admittedly, Deanna hadn't put much effort into making friends beyond the other senior staff, and as counselor she didn't have any close coworkers. Her office was a rather lonely place when it wasn't filled with the anxious energy of patients in distress. It really wasn't fair at all: Beverly had Alyssa and the other medical staff to talk to. Deanna had once been close with Tasha Yar, but… it had been years since… she still blinked back tears thinking about it.

_Don't think. Just do._

With a sharp inhale, Deanna kicked herself into gear and nearly ran out of her room. One more moment in there and she might have induced brain damage: suffocation by her own miserable contemplation. Somehow, she managed to make it down the hall without her legs giving out, finally allowing herself to take a breath in the turbolift. "Deck Twelve," she exhaled, leaning against the wall. When the doors opened, she remained in that position. How funny it was that she had thirteen days to mull over all the ways this interaction with Beverly might go and she still had no solid plan.

By grace – or _something_ – a yellow suit rounded the corner and approached her. "Counselor?"

"Data! It's good to see you. What are you doing on deck twelve?"

"It is curious that you should ask, Counselor. Doctor Crusher has requested that I run some patient files to you."

"Oh, _really_?" Deanna raised a brow. Just when she thought Beverly couldn't be any more recluse.

"Yes, and-" Data stopped mid-sentence, his face adapting that familiar, mechanically perplexed expression, "Counselor? Are you going to step out of the turbolift?"

"The question isn't _if_ I'm going to step out," Deanna beckoned to him and held out her arm for him to take, "The question is _how_ I'm going to step out." Indeed, stepping out of the turbolift meant embarking on a mission perhaps more dangerous than touching down on an uninhabitable planet... It only took a moment for her to dismiss that Beverly-esque hesitation.

"Ah," Data assisted her out of the turbolift and began walking her down the hall, "Are you experiencing symptoms of illness?"

Deanna pondered the question for a moment before responding, "I guess you could say that. It's more of a… mental ailment with effects that are physically taxing. It involves more of my emotions than it does my immune system."

"Curious… Would you be referring to your relationship with Doctor Crusher?"

"Yes, Data. How could you tell?"

"I do not mean to be intrusive in relaying this information, but I have noticed that for the past thirteen days you and Doctor Crusher have spent a total of approximately five point three hours in the same room – a seventy-one point five percent decrease from the average eighteen point sixty-four hours you would normally spend together in the same amount of time," the android glanced down at the woman beside him, only to find her staring, jaw dropped in awe.

"Data, how could you possibly know this?"

"Geordie and I were conducting a few experiments – as he would call them – this morning, and there was a moment during which my neural network was synchronized with the Enterprise's tracking records. Simple observation would also lead one to the same general conclusion."

"Hm," Deanna nodded in acknowledgment, "Interesting." The pair of them took their final steps toward the entrance to sick bay. Mostly sarcastic, she asked, "Is there anything else you'd like to tell me about my relationship with Beverly?"

"If you do not mind, Counselor," the two of them stopped next to the doorway, "I have noticed that Doctor Crusher does not smile when your name is mentioned," Deanna hoped that Data's positronic nervous system couldn't pick up the vibrations of her heart dropping, "whereas in the past she has often been excited, or at least pleased, at the sound of your name. In fact, her voice seems to lower by approximately twenty decibels when speaking about you… I would almost say that she is portraying what have been described to me before as signs of shame, or perhaps embarrassment. I must inform you that some of the other senior staff members have also observed this change – for example, Commander Riker has suggested that-"

"Thank you, Data, that's quite enough," Deanna cut him off. _Note to self: ask Will if he has any business making assumptions… Then ask what those were, exactly._ She took a deep breath – something she would tell her patients to do if they were feeling stressed. Now, it felt a bit silly. "But I appreciate your help. Could you just put those tabs in my office?"

"Of course, Counselor."

Beverly was alone in sick bay. _She must have given her staff some time to rest._ Deanna knew she did this from time to time; it was that compassionate side of Beverly that would get her into trouble sometimes, but Deanna always found it admirable. She was sitting in her office chair, one hand supporting the side of her head with an elbow on the table, the other's slender fingers lazily tapping away on a tablet. Deanna took a moment to gather her wits (and gaze at the vexing beauty) before knocking on the doorway. She had come with a prime directive of her own and she planned to adhere to it.

"Yes?" Beverly glanced up from her tapping, "Oh. Counselor Troi." That wall was erected almost immediately.

"_Oh_?" Deanna smirked. She leaned against the doorway and folded her arms, projecting confidence and composure despite Beverly's dismissive tone. How else could she react without going absolutely batshit? "_Counselor Troi_? Beverly, I thought we were on a first-name basis."

Beverly leaned back in her chair, folding her arms and crossing one leg over the other. "What do you want?"

"_What do I want_?" Deanna mimicked the doctor incredulously. She threw her hands up in the air and scoffed. _How dare Beverly be so shallow?_ "Beverly, I want to know why you've avoiding me! Is there something I did, or said? Please just tell me what I _possibly_ could have done to ruin our friendship, I-" Deanna stopped herself; her voice was rising, and she could see a blush beginning to appear in subtle blotches on the doctor's cheeks. _So much for not going batshit._ The counselor was getting ahead of herself, and if she couldn't keep her emotions under wraps how in the world could she expect Beverly to? She decided to slow down and take a deep breath and a seat in the chair opposite the redhead, extending an apologetic hand across the table. "Beverly, I just want to know if there is anything I can do to help. You've always been so open with me… I need to know how I messed up. I-" her tone softened, "I miss you. I miss _us_… together."

That brilliant brain of Beverly's was moving at a light year a minute, and it was obvious. Deanna could see that her wall was beginning to crumble – at least, wishful thinking would lead her to believe so. Blue eyes darted around the room, a side-eye towards the wall, a contemplative stare at the ground, a glance, if that, at the peace offering that was Deanna's hand – anywhere but across the table at the counselor, who was willing to wait _through_ her shift if need be; willing to wait for the three words that would solidify her hypothesis. Only then could she feel comfortable with her own inclinations. There were a couple times that Beverly's lips parted slightly, as if she were about to say something, only to return to a tight purse the next second.

"Beverly," Deanna piped up after a minute of this – in her opinion – nonsense, in a voice that was soft, encouraging, but carried an air of annoyance, nonetheless. She retracted her peace offering and loosely mimicked the doctor's pose, "It's alright if you can't verbalize everything that you're feeling, but you need to at least _do_ something, _anything_, to help me better understand what you're going through."

"Don't use that voice."

_Finally_, Deanna thought, but it was all she could do not to roll her eyes, "What voice?"

"You know the one. I'm not a patient, Deanna."

"Then stop acting like one!" _Whoops._

It was only then that Beverly looked up from the floor and glared at the counselor. The eyes that were once crystal blue oceans adopted a stormy grey tint and narrowed into fierce slits. The wall was definitely crumbling, but the counselor wasn't sure if sifting through the rubble would satisfy her in the ways she had anticipated. Voice husky, Beverly nearly hissed, "Deanna, I think you already know _exactly_ what I'm feeling."

Deanna's breath hitched; she couldn't help it. Her chest tightened. She could have melted. A sudden, small burst of light shone through the wall in Beverly's mind and it nearly sent Deanna's extrasensory abilities into hyperdrive. It took every muscle in her throat to scrounge up an, "Oh, _really_?" and when it came out as something stronger than a whimper, she was grateful.

Beverly stood. Her arms remained crossed and her eyes, dark and stormy – a force of nature. Slowly, she began to step towards Deanna, and with every step another brick fell from Beverly's wall to reveal a pocket of white light. Her voice was hushed yet combative – "Yes, _really_," **step**, "Deanna," **step**, "I am _so sorry_ if you feel I've been avoiding you," a sarcastic **step**, "But I really have been quite busy," with one more **step**, Beverly was not more than half a meter away from the counselor, looking down, "and if you can't figure out _why_ I've been so busy, you really have no business being here at all."

_How symbolic_, Deanna thought, frustrated. That was not the Beverly she knew, and certainly not the one she liked. It was time to quite literally take a stand. So, she did. And although she wasn't quite tall enough to be eye-to-eye with her friend-turned-foe, she would no longer be the prey.

"Beverly Cheryl Howard Crusher," Deanna started, her voice soft but severe, "if you don't _tell _me exactly what you're feeling, I am never going to know;" only a partial truth. Like a bubbling volcano ready to erupt, or a _wall_ on the verge of _collapse_, Beverly was barely keeping her sentiments strapped down, and the empath could feel their faint tickle. "And I have a feeling you wouldn't want _that_ to happen, would you?"

The ginger edged even nearer – a feat Deanna had not thought possible – and leaned in close, so close that their noses almost touched. "I _want_ you to know," the doctor shrugged, the hem of her lab coat brushing the side of the counselor's right leg. She was so close that even breathing was difficult; the scent of that Arvadian herbal shampoo she was known to replicate was intoxicating. Beverly leaned in and Deanna closed her eyes, beyond ready to break the tension, and felt not the softness of Beverly's lips, but instead a breathy whisper tickling her left ear, "But I'm not going to _tell_ you_._"

Finally, Beverly's damned wall was struck by some colossal wrecking ball, giving way to a bright light so blinding that Deanna had to physically clamp her eyes shut. A flaming surge of energy racked her body. Her knees buckled and she fell back into the seat behind her, gripping the armrests for fear that she'd collapse onto the office floor if she didn't. Deanna could drown in it all – the anger, the fear, the confusion, the worry... the wanting, the _needing_, the excitement, the _desire_. A high-pitched whistle penetrated her cerebellum. It pulsed through her veins and limbic system and all she could do was sit in that office chair, writhing, shaking, letting out agonized sounds that were somewhere between cries and groans and –

_"Shit. Shit, shit, shit."_

Deanna could barely make out the muffled voice through the fog that had infected her every brain cell. Then, she heard a familiar hiss and in all of a second the pain dissipated, her heart rate slowed, and her muscles relaxed tremendously.

"…Deanna?"

The counselor forced her eyes open and found her friend kneeling beside her with one hand on her own, the other clutching a hypo. Deanna tried for an, 'I'm okay,' but what came out instead was something more along the lines of, "M-nmohay..." _Good enough_.

"Oh, thank God," Beverly squeezed Deanna's hand, bringing her forehead down onto them both in relief. In a moment she looked up again with watery eyes, "Deanna, I… Your psilosynine levels, it was too much… I should have known, I _did_ know, I'm sorry, I-"

"Beverly, it's okay." Quiet, but clear.

"Deanna…" A tear trickled down Beverly's cheek. She withdrew her hand and stood up, backing away like an inexperienced cadet realizing they've just crashed the simulated starship that would have earned them their degree. She tapped her combadge, "Doctor Crusher to Doctor Selar," Beverly's voice broke, "please report to sick bay."

"Beverly, wait!" Deanna sat up straight in her chair, but it was too late, Beverly had already escaped.


	5. Talk Talk

Beverly's tears flowed freely as she walked, stinging like splinters on her burning cheeks, but she ignored them just as she had for the past thirteen days. The hallways of deck twelve had morphed into some foreign labyrinth, but the doctor kept her head down regardless, for it was spinning and she felt that if she looked up, she'd vomit. She burrowed her fists in her coat pockets as well, fearing they'd punch a defenseless passerby if given the freedom to do so. Somehow, she had found a way to make things worse. _Typical. What ever happened to 'do no harm'?_ Like the blood of a fresh wound, the memory of Deanna just… _thrashing_ around in that office chair had begun to ooze its way throughout Beverly's medulla. Another gush of recollection and she just might have fainted.

_Okay, Beverly, breathe. Where can you go? _Her quarters were compelling, yes, but even in such a volatile state the doctor knew that she couldn't be alone. It was a matter of her own safety.

_Alright then, talk to someone… Jean-Luc?_

_No, not yet, _she reasoned_. He's probably on bridge control, anyway. _Then,_ Oh, God, this might break his heart._

_Alyssa? Maybe… later. Geordie? Nope. Data? No way. Worf? Absolutely not. Will? I'd rather jump out of a loading dock. Come on, Beverly, there must be _somebody _you can confide in._

Finally, after navigating what seemed like kilometers of winding corridor, she arrived at the turbolift. The plain landmark provided some relief for Beverly, who had begun to think that the walls would surely swallow her whole had she rounded any more corners. She pressed the call button and the doors slid open to reveal a familiar face bearing a kind smile that went largely unappreciated in the instant, "Doctor Crusher, what a pleasure it is to see you again."

"Hi, Guinan," Beverly purposefully avoided eye contact with the woman as the doors hissed shut. She turned away to pat at her wet cheek with the sleeve of her coat, attempting to be as discreet as possible – likely, she knew, to no avail.

"Deck?"

"Hm?" The ginger kept her head lowered, offering but a quick glance and stilted smile, "Oh, I don't know."

"You don't know, hm?" A dull silence hung between the pair for a moment. Guinan's expression was one of thoughtful concern; it was obvious that she was brewing up some sort of scheme. "Well, I _was_ on my way up to the arboretum, but you look like someone who needs a friend," she turned away before commanding the computer, "Deck ten." Her face softened a little before continuing, "Word on the ship is that Ten Forward has the most remarkable view of space. And I have a feeling you'd like some of that."

"What?"

"Space," she smiled, "That, and a glass of authentic Silmic wine." Beverly must have looked suspicious of the proposal because Guinan was quick to follow it up with a persuasive, "Come on, Doc. You need someone to talk to and I have a couple of hours before things get busy."

"No," Beverly protested, this time giving her damp cheek an intentionally conspicuous pat. "Really, it's alright. I don't want to keep you from your recreation time, and I… I can't let anyone else see me like this."

"I'm a grown woman, Doctor, and I can choose how and with whom my personal time is spent," the door to the turbolift opened and Guinan gestured for Beverly to step out ahead of her, "Nobody else will see you, that's a guarantee." Beverly sighed; there were no means of escape. Then again, the last time she had tried to 'escape' someone it ended with a near-death experience and what was most likely a severed relationship – _and that was less than half an hour ago! Who knows? – maybe I'm on a roll._

Just as promised, Ten Forward was utterly desolate (save for the volunteer bartender, who Guinan dismissed with one deliberate look), a stark contrast to its busiest evening hours. Beverly showed herself to a table for two while Guinan slipped behind the bar to fish out a bottle of _Silmic wine_ – whatever _that_ was. The doctor shed her coat and sank down into her chair. She folded her arms on the tabletop and dropped her head down onto them in defeat, releasing a long, frustrated groan.

"That bad, huh?" The mystic approached the table with two glasses of a dark blue liquid and sat down opposite Beverly, "Take a sip of that. It'll help."

Beverly sat up in her seat and followed her instruction, swallowing down something richly sweet with a slight tang. The flavor induced an earnest, weak smile, "Delicious. Thank you, Guinan."

"You're welcome," she relaxed into the firm cushion of her chair, "Now tell me all about this awful morning you've been having."

"It all started… Well, I suppose everything started the last time we spoke, actually," Beverly racked her brain until she could dig up the words to convey her story without tripping over every detail – there were _so_ many details. When she finally did unearth them, she was off and running.

Beverly told Guinan of all the qualities that she found beautiful in Deanna: her hair, her eyes, her smile; her intelligence, her tenderness, her magnetism. How it took her so long to realize that every time they were together, Beverly felt happy – truly, blissfully giddy – and how she just hadn't been able to feel that with anyone else since Jack, unless they happened to be the subject of a particularly fervent fling. How Deanna's absence left Beverly feeling empty – truly, excruciatingly vacant. She told Guinan how it seemed like for months before she touched Deanna in the way that she had at the masquerade, she couldn't feel much at all, and how when she finally did, it was like piloting a shuttle into an exploding star: an engulfing eruption of every emotion, all at once. (She didn't, of course, disclose to Guinan the fire that the image of her dancing friend kindled… How every time she touched herself, she could only fantasize about what was hidden beneath blue velvet, how everything else didn't seem quite right… or as thrilling.) She informed Guinan of the incident in sick bay – how her childish melodramatic outburst could have been fatal for the innocent Betazoid. How those thirteen days of physical and emotional evasion were all for naught, how she'd sabotaged her relationship with her close friend for no valid reason, and how she'd likely be relieved of duty for forcing a coworker to undergo easily avoidable paracortical trauma.

This onslaught of baggage was met with _laughter_, of all things. It was nothing but a snicker, but Beverly was appalled. How could this woman, who had just sat through what must have been a ten-minute confession, _laugh_ at her? There was venom in Beverly's tone when she asked, "Did I say something funny, Guinan? Please, enlighten me." The woman across the table only laughed harder.

"I'm sorry, Beverly, I couldn't help it. It's just-" Guinan struggled to curb her enthusiasm, "You really think it's _that_ serious?"

"Excuse me?"

"First of all, you're not going to be fired. She didn't die. In fact, you saved her life."

"In case you've forgotten, I was also the one who almost killed her!" Beverly rolled her eyes and took another sip of her wine. She added then, bashfully, "I just… wasn't thinking. I knew how dangerous releasing all of that negative… _stuff_ could be."

"So, your intention was to hurt her?"

"Of course not!"

"Well then, there you go. It was an honest mistake." Guinan folded her arms slowly, knowingly. She continued, "Second, you're in luck because one of Counselor Troi's greatest attributes is her ability to _forgive_. I'm willing to bet that she won't report the incident to Starfleet at all. That, and she probably understands what you're going through better than anyone else on this ship does, myself included."

"How is that?" Beverly raised an incredulous eyebrow, "I just confided in you everything that's been going through my head for the past two weeks. She has – what? – a couple seconds of abstraction?"

Guinan scoffed, "You don't think she's scared, too? You honestly mean to tell me that in all your years as a woman, a mother, a lover, a healer, a _human_, you haven't ever felt nervous at the thought of the nature of a relationship that was important to you changing?"

Beverly broke eye contact at the question, swirling around what was left of the blue liquid in her glass. "I just… I don't want to cause any more damage."

"Well, that brings me to my third and final point," Guinan leaned forward in her seat, folding her hands on the table in front of her, "How do you think distancing yourself from her is going to do either of you any good? She obviously wanted to talk to you when she showed up at sick bay. Counselor Troi needs a friend-" the ginger opened her mouth to argue but Guinan continued despite this- "somebody _other_ than Commander Riker. As their doctor, you should probably be concerned by the number of chocolate sundaes she's dragged him in here for in the past two weeks." Whatever Beverly thought she was going to say was replaced by familiar, fuzzy images of Deanna Troi smiling through bites of ice cream. "Whether she wants you in her life platonically or romantically, she wants _you_, Beverly."

Beverly sighed. It wasn't that she didn't _want_ to see Deanna again – she _did_ – it was just that the assumption that Deanna had any interest in her after what happened in sick bay seemed a bit outlandish, even for Guinan. In fact, if Beverly hadn't retained the little sanity she was left with, she might have gone so far as to say the entire situation was Guinan's fault. After all, it was she who planted the seed at the masquerade… _'What about a woman?' my ass._ The doctor winced at this and shook her head, then downed the rest of her wine.

No, the blame fell solely on Beverly, and it wasn't fair to Guinan, or Deanna, or herself to deflect it, however tempting that may have been. Despite the magnitude of Beverly's reservations, circumvention was no longer justified. And then it hit her: for the first time in thirteen days, she knew exactly what she had to do.

"Thanks for the wine, Guinan," Beverly stood up suddenly and hurriedly shrugged on her coat, "and the conversation. I owe you."

"Oh? How about a year's worth of free consultations with my favorite doctor?"

"You know those are always free," the ginger smiled over her shoulder as she headed for the door.

"You come tell me when you think of something better," Guinan raised her glass, which Beverly hadn't realized was still full, "Until then, Doctor Crusher."

Deck eight's hallways were straightforward and forgiving, unlike the monstrosity that deck twelve had been. It was the door to the counselor's office that presented a challenge for the doctor; somehow her feet had become frozen to the ground just a few meters away. The plan was simple, she had thought. All that was really required of her was an apology. An apology… _and a talk_. Beverly was beginning to detest _talks_, which could only be indicative of the emotional strain the entire situation was putting on the woman who had once been pressed to control her big mouth. _Suck it up, Bev. God knows you've been through worse… But is it too soon? It couldn't have been more than an hour and a half ago that I-_ A more comical thought then generated a smile accompanied by a pleasant little warmth that melted the ice around her feet and got her started towards the door: _Never mind. She'll track you down _again_ if you don't get to her first._

Beverly stepped over the proverbial threshold into the overwhelmingly purple office. Deanna was seated in front of her personal computer, arms folded, looking up expectantly at the doctor. Her face was blank, if not harsh, but most of all, it was familiar. It was the same expression that Beverly had taught her to use when she played poker. Will had taken the liberty of coaching Deanna through the rules of the game years prior, but when she complained to Beverly of her frequent losses it became clear that the trouble lied in her inability to present a truly effective poker face. It was during the next game the pair attended that Beverly realized why none of the other crewmembers had bothered to clue her in: the Betazoid could already read their emotions. If Deanna upped the defense, they had no chance of winning. Beverly practically ruined the next month of games until Data managed to spot Deanna's tell and break the streak.

"Oh. Doctor Crusher."

Beverly twitched slightly at that. She knew that a taste of her own medicine was well-earned, but the delivery stung all the same. "Deanna, don't-"

"You're lucky I don't have any appointments scheduled, or I might have asked you to leave," the brunette interjected matter-of-factly. "What do you want?"

Beverly took a deep breath, but the words still tumbled out of her mouth so quickly that she nearly tripped over them, "Deanna, I just want to apologize. I shouldn't have bombarded you with all of those- those _feelings_, because I knew what could happen, and I did it anyway, and it nearly killed you, and-"

"I want to hear you say it," the counselor interrupted, standing to move towards the doctor. Her demeanor was odd – almost confrontational, but not at all threatening. Her arms were still crossed. It was probably the wine talking, but for a moment Beverly wondered if Deanna was really getting off on this whole 'role reversal' thing.

"What?"

"I want you to _tell_ me what you're _feeling_, Beverly. Not what's going through your head. I want to know what's in your heart," Deanna's face adapted an unexpected small, encouraging smile. _It's not the wine, _Beverly thought, relieved, _just Deanna's way of scaring me shitless… not that I don't deserve it_. "And I definitely don't want to hear anything about valves or arteries." Deanna then held out her hand with a gleam in her eye before adding, softly, "I know it might be hard, but if you don't _tell_ me I might explode. Literally."

Every reservation that had previously plagued her was washed away with the feeling of her friend's hand in her own, and for a moment she wondered how she could have been so _stupid_ to avoid Deanna. To deprive herself of emotional intimacy – romantic or not – for _thirteen days_. Deanna led her to the obligatory psychologist's couch (which Beverly usually made a point to avoid sitting on but in the moment felt comfortable in knowing that she was more than just a patient) and scooched up close next to Beverly.

"Deanna, I think I lo-" The ginger shook her head with a shy smile; she could feel her cheeks turning pink already. It had been a couple of years since she'd said that to anyone – romantically, at least. When was it even supposed to be said? _Certainly not in a therapist's office. Slow down_. "I _know_ that I _like_ you."

Deanna nodded, "I know that I like you, too, Beverly. I always have." The counselor was being overly patient with Beverly, which she appreciated but found slightly embarrassing. In many ways it made the situation seem elementary and she already felt like a schoolgirl as it were.

"But I think that the masquerade may have stirred up some emotions that weren't… _there_ before. Or, maybe I didn't realize that they existed, and," Beverly broke eye contact. She knew Deanna could read her without it, "I just wasn't sure if you felt the same, or if acknowledging these feelings would somehow negatively impact our current relationship. I don't want to lose you, Deanna, and I'm afraid I almost did in sick bay, and… I guess what I'm trying to say is that thirteen days was enough. I was an idiot to avoid you. Frankly, I don't really care if you feel what I feel for you, I just want my best friend back."

Deanna gave Beverly's hand a knowing squeeze. "Beverly, I'm so sorry I didn't reach out to you sooner. If I had known how much that dance affected you, I would've-"

"You have _nothing_ to apologize for," Beverly returned the squeeze. "I missed you."

Deanna grinned then and stood, pulling Beverly up with her and wrapping her in a hug. "I missed you, too."

The embrace, however satisfying, was cut short by the chirp of Deanna's combadge. It was Will: "_Counselor Troi, you're needed on the bridge_."

Deanna pulled away from Beverly with an apologetic look and tapped the small device, "On my way." For a moment Beverly swore she was pulled back in time to that night in the holodeck: blue eyes searched black, wherein lied more questions than answers. The air around her felt thick and hazy – like a dream. It could have made her sick again if it wasn't for the profound sense of calm that accompanied Deanna's gaze. The tension only faltered when she grabbed Beverly's hand and gave it another squeeze with a grin, "Arboretum. Nineteen hundred hours?"

"Yes, perfect," Beverly replied, and with one more parting squeeze of the hand Deanna turned to leave. Beverly knew that the Betazoid could feel her excitement. She knew she could feel _everything_. And this time, the doctor made sure that it was all lovely.


	6. Date?

"Doctor Crusher? Are you alright?"

"Oh, yes. Very."

"Very… alright?"

It was at that moment Beverly realized she was daydreaming. _Chief Medical Officer!_ _Daydreaming! On the job! God, I must sound ridiculous._ "Yes, Selar. I am _very_ alright," the physician smiled at her coworker and stood up – too quickly – to attend to _whatever_ it was that needed attending. She had failed to swivel her chair away from the desk in front of her and instead rammed her thighs straight into it, wincing at the sharp pain. Fortunately for her, Selar was among the most respectful of the Enterprise crew, as Vulcans of the Federation principally were, for it was painfully obvious that Beverly's head was in a different nebula.

"Please understand that I do not intend to question your authority, Doctor…"

"Go on," Beverly prompted, shoving her hands in her coat pockets. She moved closer to Selar, standing at attention beside the desk. It was imperative that she not lose any more credibility. She still had to redeem herself from the morning's escapades, which had almost certainly put her at risk of being reported to higher authority. Although in this case that authority was her friend, Jean-Luc, she had an impeccable track record to maintain. One slip and she could lose all the professional acclaim she had worked for years to establish.

"When you requested my assistance this morning, I arrived post-haste but there were no patients that required attention. I was just wondering if there was any issue with staffing. I apologize if I misinterpreted your earlier directions."

Of course, Selar was referring to Beverly's tendency to relieve some of her personnel on slow days. It went against regulation, yes, but it hadn't ever backfired. They were required to stay on deck twelve if they didn't want to wait around in sick bay, as long as she was always present. When she wasn't working, the place had to be fully staffed. Beverly considered treating her workforce to some time off to be one of the perks of her position as CMO. It was probably sick bay's best-kept secret. She shook her head, "Don't worry, Doctor, you didn't do anything wrong. Counselor Troi wasn't here?"

"No, it seems I just missed her. I did see her in the hall on my way down here. I didn't realize _she_ was the… patient that required attention. I took the liberty of enlisting the other staff while you were gone."

"Good," Beverly rocked once on her balls of her feet to combat the vague nerves telling her that Selar suspected there was something amiss. "Is there anything else you'd like to tell me?"

"Yes. Nurse Ogawa would like to speak to you now," Selar paused, glancing in the general direction of Alyssa's station, "privately."

"Alright then, send her in."

A moment passed before a very chipper Alyssa entered the room with her hands folded behind her back. "Beverly," she began, "I'd like to speak to you as a friend."

"Go right ahead, Alyssa," Beverly nodded, masking her nerves this time with a sweet smile. She moved to sit on the corner of her desk. If anything, some relaxed body language might encourage her mind to follow suit.

"Well, I wanted to ask if you were alright-"

_It seems everybody does,_ the ginger retorted, silently.

"-because as you probably know I was on-shift this morning and, well, the other staff and I were called back here rather… _suddenly_, and you were nowhere to be found, and just now Selar tells me that _Counselor Troi_ was the emergency patient, but she saw her heading down the hall on her way here, and Beverly-"

"Yes?"

"Well, from my perspective – and I'm sure I speak for the rest of the sick bay staff as well – it all seems a little _odd_. Especially considering everything that's been going on between the two of you recently-"

"Sorry,_ what_?" Beverly crossed her arms and raised a brow at her coworker, outwardly collected though she felt her stomach turn. _How the hell does she know?_

"Oh, Beverly… Surely you don't think it isn't obvious!" Alyssa put her hands on her hips, giving the doctor a knowing look. Beverly tensed up at the accusation, bracing herself for impact. Her friend, of course, immediately sensed the change and moved forward to rest a hand on her shoulder. The receiving party kept her arms crossed despite the comforting gesture. "Look, we all know that you and Counselor Troi haven't been on good terms for a while. None of us wanted to mention it because it all seemed a little… personal. Honestly, Beverly, you've killed so many hours working in the past few weeks that I'm worried you might burn out!"

The doctor hoped her coworker interpreted the sigh that escaped her as one of compliance rather than what it really was: relief. Truth be told, Beverly wasn't ready to reveal to Alyssa – and no doubt the entirety of sick bay in turn – that it wasn't just a simple disagreement. Deanna occupied a very different area of her mind as of fourteen days prior. Moreover, she only then realized just how much of the day – how much of the past two weeks – she had spent thinking of her empathic friend. Conscious avoidance is still obsession. On top of all that, nothing was set in stone. There was still a chance that their date (could she call it that? she certainly wanted to call it that) would somehow go wrong, and they'd end up back where they started: as friends.

"You're right, Alyssa. It was personal," Beverly paused to think for a moment before carrying on. Her words had to be chosen carefully, lest she reveal too much of her situation or worse; hurt a friend that she cared for deeply. She'd already done more of that than was ideal for one day. "Thank you for respecting my – _our_ – boundaries. This morning Deanna came to me with an issue and I wasn't fit to handle the job. I excused myself and contacted Selar to deal with it, but Deanna must have recovered enough to return to work. Simple as that." Beverly smiled and placed a hand atop the one on her shoulder. A half-truth would have to suffice.

"You still haven't answered my original question," Alyssa flipped her hand to give Beverly's a friendly squeeze before dropping it. Taking a step back, she crossed her arms, looking concerned, "How are you _feeling_? You can tell me anything, Beverly. You've listened to more of my problems than I can count. It'd be nice to return the favor every once in a while."

"I'm feeling okay. Better than I've felt in two weeks, actually."

"What changed?"

"I was able to speak to Deanna after the incident down here. We're on good terms." _For now._ "In fact, we're spending some time together tonight, just to talk things over." _A little extra information can't hurt, right?_

"That's fantastic!" The nurse wrapped her friend in a tight hug. "I'm so happy for you both. And I'm glad you're finally feeling better. It's about time."

"Yeah, it is," Beverly couldn't help but blush. _Was it really that obvious?_ "Thank you for checking in on me."

"No problem at all," Alyssa released Beverly and offered one last smile on her way out, "You know where to find me!"

Beverly spent the remainder of her shift excitedly counting down the minutes, but by eighteen hundred hours she was back in her quarters and at her wit's end. She must have changed outfits at least three times. She'd decided on a half-up-half-down hairstyle, and for the time being a beige blouse paired with olive-green pegged trousers. Questions upon questions battled for dominance as she stared at her reflection, blankly: _What am I supposed to _wear_ for this sort of thing? Am I allowed to call this a date? Will pants do the trick? What if Deanna shows up in uniform? What even is the point of meeting at the arboretum when we could just meet up at Ten Forward or one of our quarters? _Beverly was all for innovation – as a medic she considered herself a patron of positive change – but the tug of convention clung to her still. Quarters symbolized comfort. Then again, thoughts of what might ensue in the privacy of their rooms prickled her mind and made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and, suddenly, the memory of returning to her own quarters after their infamous dance hit her hard enough to yank her out of the rut she'd veered into.

To put it simply, she retired to a messy room that could wait until morning, slipped out of her dress and into a nightgown, wiped off her makeup, cleared her bed, and prepared to sleep as she would any other evening.

But to 'put it simply' would be as amoral as lying.

Following the masquerade, pictures of Deanna branded her memory – that velvet dress, clinging to soft curves; hair that could be compared to a dark waterfall; a delicate sheen of sweat gathered from dancing that highlighted her bosom with every breath. _Feelings_ of Deanna were seared there, as well. That night marked the first time she had ever allowed herself to think of the counselor as anything other than a friend. Instinct soon took over, and her hands drifted downwards while images of blue velvet kept her company.

Beverly dismissed the memory in favor of maintaining her sanity. _Pants will suffice._

When she arrived at the arboretum it was peaceful, as usual – the lights were set to replicate dusk on earthlike planets – though she was shocked to find it empty. No Deanna Troi in sight. Keiko O'Brien could usually be found conducting experiments on the growth cycles of new species, but she was nowhere to be seen, either. "Computer, what time is it?"

"_It is nineteen hundred hours._"

Beverly nodded, both in recognition of the automated response and the fact that she might have been stood up. _Don't start – she's just late_. Then her more sensible brain kicked in;_ No, you're early. _Beverly knew she had a propensity for jumping to conclusions. It was a habit that aided her in the medical field, as preparation for anything – including the worst – saves lives, and conclusions can be built on solid fact. When that inner saboteur kicked in during moments of uncertainty in her personal life, however, it was oft not to her advantage.

"Sorry!" The sound of Deanna's apologetic lilt fractured Beverly's moping, and she turned around just in time to catch the shorter woman in a hug. Deanna was wearing what Beverly knew was one of her favorites – a purple halter dress with complimentary tights – and her hair was done in a loose braid of sorts. She carried a basket with her.

Beverly pulled away from the embrace – though it was tempting to hold on forever – and held up a bottle. "Look."

"What is that? Synthehol?"

"Nope," Beverly grinned, "A friend of ours offered me some Silmic wine a while ago-" she had no intention of telling Deanna that 'a while ago' was code for earlier that day- "and I was able to grab a bottle on the way here. And glasses."

"Guinan?"

"You got it."

"Sounds great. I should have known you'd be an amazing date," the younger woman teased, taking her friend by the hand and leading her to an area that overlooked the pond. Little did she know just how that word had terrorized Beverly throughout the day. Finally, the subject could be put to rest. A _date_ it was. Deanna placed the basket on the nearby bench and pulled out a pink blanket, which the two of them spread together. "I brought sandwiches," Deanna started as the two of them sat down across from each other. She reached into the basket to pull them out, handing one to Beverly. "I just replicated your usual; I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," the ginger replied. Lighter food was a wise choice, anyway, as the butterflies in her stomach still fluttered about.

Alas, Beverly could not bring herself to begin eating as Deanna took her first few bites. The empath, astute as she was, noticed this and crawled to the other side of the blanket to sit next to Beverly. The two were oriented toward the pond. "You want to tell me why you're not eating?"

"Does this feel strange to you?" Beverly countered quickly, making eye contact with the woman beside her.

"No," Deanna cocked her head slightly, perplexed, "Why would it?"

"Well, it was only a few hours ago that I _hurt_ you," Beverly's voice broke, "badly, and-"

"I'm going to stop you right there," Deanna interjected, voice still smooth and reassuring, "Beverly, I'm _fine_. I won't say that what happened in sick bay was _my_ fault, but what I will say is that there is no reason to blame yourself. From what I understand, you'd been suppressing some very intense, raw emotions for _two weeks_. I've done a lot of counseling during my time on this ship, and I don't know a single member of our crew who could go that long without exploding. Even the captain," she smiled, "_Especially_ the captain. I'm surprised you made it as far as you did."

"But from a medical perspective you should be exhausted!"_ And from a rational perspective you shouldn't be talking to me._

"I am a little tired, but I was able to get some rest between my shift and coming here. Don't worry about me," Deanna smiled, but Beverly was obviously not convinced. Deanna paused for a moment, undoubtedly thinking up an explanation that would satisfy her friend. "Do you remember when I lost my empathic abilities?"

"Yes." Beverly remembered quite clearly, in fact.

"I know you do because I was terrible to you," Deanna looked down at her lap, and her voice softened a bit. "I had lost a part of myself and the only way I could think to get my frustration out was by hurting others, including my closest friends." She placed a hand on Beverly's knee, reestablishing eye contact, "And what did you do after I said those nasty things? You invited me to your office, and you _forgave_ me. God, you were so clear-headed… and I was a mess. The only difference between the instances is that I lost the ability to tune into others' emotions; you lost the will to tune into your own. That doesn't make you evil, it makes you human. After today, consider us even. I forgive you, Beverly. You just need to forgive yourself."

Tears pricked at Beverly's eyes as she considered the information. It all made sense; to deny herself forgiveness would be foolish. Deanna was right – _Guinan_ was right – but it was going to take time. "Okay," she patted the hand on her knee, "Thank you. Let's eat."

So, the two of them ate, and filled each other in on a fortnight of information. The conversation flowed so naturally, as if the past thirteen days were inconsequential. If anything, there was an even deeper understanding between them. They were still talking well after they finished their sandwiches, which were of course accompanied by Silmic wine and chocolate for dessert.

Eventually, there came a lull in the conversation. By that time, they were both laying down on their sides about a meter apart, mirroring each other with their heads propped up on their hands. Beverly took that time to examine the woman across from her, whose eyes had fallen shut, accompanied by a sleepy smile. Beverly's studies only certified this: She was infatuated. Deanna Troi wasn't like any of the men she had been with previously. Her marriage to Jack took a while to come to fruition, yes, but it had been perfect. He was caring, charming, respectful, and had a great sense of humor – but he was gone, and with raising their son on top of her busy schedule as a Starfleet medical officer the best she could hope for was an intense fling here or there. Living aboard the Enterprise didn't help her case, either. It was, in a word, tumultuous. Deanna, however, posed a new alternative. Not that Beverly hadn't ever thought of pursuing another officer; Jean-Luc was an option… sort of. Their relationship had always been complicated, though. Deanna was stable. And sensitive. _And stunning._

"I can feel you looking at me." Deanna murmured, her eyes still closed.

"I know," Beverly smiled. "What else do you feel?"

"From you? Hmm," Deanna hummed. She rolled onto her back and let her hands rest on her chest. "Happiness. Contentment. Affection."

"Good," Beverly wiggled closer to the brunette. That's exactly what she wanted Deanna to feel around her, always. She wasn't sure if it was the wine, the setting, the woman, or all three, but she didn't feel as nervous as she had mere hours before. Therefore, it was easy for her to plant a simple kiss – soft, sweet, _safe_ – to the very right of Deanna's lips, on the corner of her mouth.

The kiss seemed incentive enough to wake Deanna from her sleepy haze, however, and the instant Beverly rolled back into place the other woman was on top of her, straddling her hips. The new position startled Beverly and her breath hitched slightly, but it was not an unwanted change in the slightest. For a moment, the two were frozen in that spot, but there was no element of searching in their respective gazes as there had been before. Everything that had to be communicated, was without difficulty. Beverly basked in Deanna's light, appreciating the curly tendrils that loosely framed her face, dark eyes that held more emotion than she had ever seen before, pink lips that looked so inviting-

"You're beautiful. Really," Deanna took the words right out of Beverly's mouth.

_Well, if you're going to tell her how you really feel… _The ginger finally broke the tension that divided them, placing her hands on Deanna's cheeks and gently guiding her down for a kiss that was tender, warm, and intimate beyond words. When it came to an end, it left her breathless and wanting more; _God_, how she wanted more.

"Wow," was the only word Beverly's foggy brain could conjure up as the other woman beamed down at her. She wasn't sure if it was the expression or the circumstance that made Deanna giggle. Either way, she was grateful for the sound of it. If Beverly could have chosen to stay like that for the remainder of the night, she would have in a heartbeat. She felt Deanna shiver as she ran lazy hands up and down her torso, and for a moment she wondered if Deanna had ever fantasized in the same ways she did. The thought was tempting, intoxicating, and _definitely requires further research… but not now: _For Deanna's sake, and her own. "Computer, what time is it?"

"_It is twenty-two hundred hours_."

"My shift starts at o'five-hundred hours tomorrow morning," Deanna stated, matter-of-factly, but with an easy smile. It was obvious she was tired; her eyelids were halfway closed and her grasp on coherent speech was beginning to slip. The Silmic wine didn't help much, either, Beverly knew.

The pair of them silently (and a bit begrudgingly) packed their items and left the arboretum, hand-in-hand, only letting go at the sight of passersby. Beverly didn't know what their relationship was, but in the moment, she didn't need to. It was thrilling; it was different; and for the time being, it was wonderful – like a dream. Beverly walked Deanna to her quarters a deck below her own. They'd need to talk more when they were both awake enough to function. (Finally, a _talk_ Beverly wasn't dreading.) That night, although separate, the two of them slept better than they had in thirteen days.


End file.
